


Interrogatoire

by HannahLydia



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Universe - Paris, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Anachronistic, Blow Jobs, Consensual, Detective Noir, Dominance, Established Relationship, F/M, Hand Jobs, High Heels, Incest, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Power Play, Pre-Negotiated Kink, Restraints, Rough Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 05:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15965681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahLydia/pseuds/HannahLydia
Summary: “Just what are you planning on getting out of me?” He played along, feigning anger as his arms strained against the belted cuffs.Satisfied with his answer, Elizabeth tipped her head back. “Information, Mr DeWitt,” She said softly, angling the brass lampshade of the floor-lamp away from his squinting face. She spoke in a seductive thrum that was lazy in its pace. “You– have something that I need,”AKA: More shameless PWP, this time with a noir spin on it. Booker and Elizabeth are more established in their relationship and, as a result, much more adventurous in the bedroom.





	Interrogatoire

**Paris. 1914.**

How did she talk him into this again?

Booker’s arms instinctively flexed against the restraints binding him to the chair; the arm-bands that usually kept his rolled-up sleeves in check now trapping him to the seat they had pulled in here from the dining room.

It was almost winter outside; the north wind howled and rattled the slatted shutters framing the ceiling-to-floor arched windows on the far wall. There was a draft in the room, nipping at his bare skin and causing the dark hairs on his arms to rise. He felt the creeping chill seeping through like a miasma, reaching his feet and settling between his legs, his testicles contracting and hugging tight to his body in an attempt to preserve heat.   
Booker would have preferred to admit that he’d been plied with booze at the time, but he’d been stone-cold sober when he’d relented to this masquerade.  
The dark of the room was permeated only by the banker lamp that acted as a source of ambience far behind him, and the immediate, angled floor lamp at his side that assaulted his retinas, its dusty filament bulb burning white-hot only inches from his face. Tendrils of smoke writhed in the beams of light; remnants of the cigarette burning itself to ash in the porcelain tray on the sideboard.  

The bedr— _office_ door swung open at that moment, and Booker’s eyes were drawn just as his ears were drawn to the sound of the anachronistic high heels clicking across the floorboards. The black T-bars shone with a dulled down gloss in the light that pooled over the floor, authoritative in their stride, claiming every inch of the room they crossed. His green gaze soon travelled up the pale voluptuous legs that were marching towards him, drifting up to the hem of the trench coat that – again – didn’t belong in this time or place; a product of some fantasy noir future she had glimpsed and brought with her to Paris. This was a scene some thirty to forty years premature; albeit a little more risqué than would be depicted in your standard melodrama.   
Resting on the shoulders of that careworn coat were some loose curls so brown they appeared black in low light, framing a heart-shaped face with kohl-rimmed eyes. Elizabeth’s painted lips moved at a torturous pace. “Are you comfortable, Mr DeWitt?”

The velvety purr in which she spoke sent a pleasant chill down his spine, his belly twisting in anticipation.   
_I’m not_ un _comfortable_ , he thought as he watched her shrugging off the coat in one smooth, liquid motion, the garment pooling behind her on the floor as though she’d been practising the art of undressing.   
Was he supposed to _pretend_ his confinement was unbearable? Despite being bound, the upholstered seat-pad was a welcome change to the kind of muscle-numbing wooden chairs he used to pin marks into during his Pinkerton days, and the belted bands were loose enough to allow some degree of movement.  
In fact, Booker had to keep his head bowed in order to disguise the lopsided smile that had begun to tug at his lips the instant Elizabeth had stepped into the light. His smirk was only becoming more evident now that he could see she was in nothing more than a lacy black negligee. The porcelain column of her throat was adorned with a matching velvet ribbon holding her cameo in place, its silver bird glittering in the lamplight. Funny. He had never noticed it was a swallow before.

Elizabeth’s gaze hardened in prompt, and Booker soon realised he’d been delaying. Didn’t he have a line to say? It wasn’t as though they were reading off a script, but he was hardly playing his part in the play if he was just going to stare at her. With his head still lowered, chin almost flush to his Adam’s apple, he raised his eyes to meet hers, consciously angling his eyebrows down low over them. It wasn’t hard to appear stoic; the expression sat naturally upon his face.   
“Just what are you planning on getting out of me?” He played along, feigning anger as his arms strained against the belted cuffs.   
Satisfied with his answer, Elizabeth tipped her head back, shaking out her dark hair and forming an enigmatic smile out of her too-red lips. She closed the gap between them, leaning over, hands beginning to work off to his side. “Information, Mr DeWitt,” She said softly, angling the brass lampshade of the floor-lamp away from his squinting face. Then, she turned to catch his eye, her blue irises almost silver beneath her heavy eyeliner. She spoke in a seductive thrum that was lazy in its pace. “You– have something that I need,”

Blood rushed to Booker’s groin. Oh, she was _good_ at this. He hadn’t missed the double entendre; he wondered how many more she’d slip in for his benefit.   
Fighting hard against that same, insistent smirk that threatened to tug at his mouth, he instead forced his lips into a tight frown.   
He sat back in the chair, raising his head in what he hoped appeared to be a kind of fearless, cocksure bravado. “Lady, I’m not giving you _shit_ ,”    
At his humourless laugh, Elizabeth’s hands came to rest on the wrists of his much larger hands, grip surprisingly firm, forcing him to grab hold of the carved arms of the chair. It was her turn to appraise him from head to toe now, her almost predatory eyes scanning his naked form slowly, as if gauging him. It was only then that Booker realised sitting here in his birthday suit made him feel oddly self-conscious, especially when she looked at him like he was a well-dressed meal. He hoped the cold hadn’t shrivelled his vitals too noticeably, and that the rise she was drawing out of him was steadily becoming more apparent.

Having scoped him out, his lover hummed contentedly. One hand moved to cup his chin, her thumb firm against the hard line of his stubbled jaw as she forced him into holding her gaze. Her touch was warm for the most part considering the chill, but then neither of them were paying the cold much attention now.   
Elizabeth regarded him with something close to sympathy, her acting so on-point that it had Booker questioning how long this game could go on for. He was used to her being the initiator in their relationship - gladly swept along at her pace - but this was so different to their usual love-making. He’d thought to himself she might drop the act as soon as she saw the fruits of her labour, but even with her sultry gaze drawing out his erection he could see she wasn’t done yet.

Elizabeth smiled wickedly. “I’m giving you the _choice_ , Mr DeWitt,” His surname rolled off her tongue like it was a lewd profanity she took great pleasure in accentuating.   
Booker held onto her words as if she’d just cast a spell, his head forced upwards by the speed in which she then snapped her hand free from his chin. She was lowering herself down, getting on her knees before him and taking hold of his legs with both hands. “Now– we can do this the easy way… or the _hard_ way,” She warned. The threat sounded much more rewarding than the compromise.   
Inhaling sharply, the wiry hairs across Booker’s arms and legs began to bristle. He watched as a strap of her negligee slipped delicately down her arm of its own accord; he liked to pretend that if he stared hard enough the second strap might follow suit. Outwardly he had still managed to retain his indignant expression - fulfilling his part in their little game - while internally he was crying out for the ‘hard way’ to be on _his_ terms. His heart was racing, fists clenched. _Just you untie me, sweetheart… I’ll show you how ‘ **hard** ’ you’ve made it… _

His train of thought was disrupted by the pressure Elizabeth began to apply to his thighs, slowly pushing his knees apart with a triumphant smile. The white of her teeth glittered in the overhead light, her already-rosy cheeks flushing with colour.   
 _Fuck… !_ Desire coiled in Booker’s abdomen at the sight of the devilish expression on her face. That same smile was the same one she wore whenever she lorded it over him between the sheets. Grinding his teeth, he found himself fighting against her grip, building the delicious tension with every mock-objection.  
At his ‘efforts’, Elizabeth let out a musical laugh. “If you won’t come willingly, I’ll simply have to find some other way of ‘extracting’ it from you…”

 “–Like _what_?” He half-gasped, half-growled, even though they both knew he had a fairly good idea. The thought of her scarlet lips wrapped around his shaft was making it throb in eager expectation. “What– you think I’ll talk? How long d’ you think you can keep me strapped in this chair, huh?”   
Despite his tough words, Elizabeth won the battle. She soon succeeded in prying his legs apart and keeping his knees spread, before immediately occupying the space they had vacated. Her hands moved from their position at his lower thighs upwards with the cool, methodical motions of a professional masseuse, her perfectly manicured fingernails ghosting his skin. “Long enough,” She promised darkly, her hand moving to coil around his length. “Now… are you ready to talk?”  
Again, Booker grit his teeth, his head tipping back the instant her hand curled around him, her thumb and forefinger applying just the right amount of pressure. The cool metal of her thimble was usually something she was conscious of whenever she worked him with her hands, but now it was pressing to him just as keenly as the rest of her fingers, sending a small shockwave throughout his lower half.   
His breath hitched; her hand had already begun to pump to and fro against him. 

“Nn—nnnn…” He endeavoured to shake his head, trying to keep up the guise of ‘captive’. In his experience it was usually now that he would be reaching for her, or at the very least venting with his hands so that she could see he was enjoying her motions. He subconsciously fought with the bonds holding him down, finally inconvenienced by them. When that proved futile, his hips bucked upwards into her hand.   
Elizabeth exhaled shortly, the sound like a half-laugh as she narrowed her eyes up at him. She’d be lying if she claimed she didn’t enjoy getting to be the dominant one for a change. Much as she was the one who usually initiated their activities, he was usually the one to take over. After all, he had much more experience in these matters than she did. For maybe exactly that reason, there was something about having this older, well-versed man melting at her touch that was infinitely satisfying. Never mind the sordid fact of what they _were;_ that was something she suppressed, only to remember with shameful relish when it suited her. Right now? Now, it was rising in the pits of her mind like a dark triumphant secret. 

“Hmm… Something tells me you’re going to enjoy the ‘hard’ way,” she teased in a low voice, her hand quickening its pace.  
Booker tried to regain control of his hips, which had thus far been eagerly forcing his cock into her jerking grip. He released a grunt that was low and feral-sounding, knuckles turning white from his intense grip on the chair-arms. “You… _mmh_ … You won’t get away with this,” The words left him in a gasping growl as he fought with himself, not wanting to submit so easily to this pleasurable torture.   
At that, Elizabeth cocked a dark eyebrow, amusedly eyeing his shaft as if pointing out that it contradicted his statement. “Huh. It– looks like I already have,” She commented dryly, and with a gentle shrug of her shoulders, the second strap of her negligee slid down her arm. The detail didn’t escape Booker’s attention; his gaze homed in on it hungrily. Oh, how he wished he was free to hook his hands in the fabric and tear it from her body. Slip his hands inside and clutch ahold of the swell of her breasts…  
After a couple more strokes against his length, Elizabeth’s mouth unexpectedly closed around him. 

“Ffff– _fuck-!_ Elizabeth–!” Booker throatily groaned, convulsing the instant she took him into her hot, wet mouth. He broke character, he knew; but he wouldn’t have been able to keep it up for much longer. His toes curled against the wooden floorboards, rocking the chair underneath him. Conscious he could topple back if he kicked at the floor with more gusto, Elizabeth soon pressed a firm, steadying hand down on his upper thigh.   
As she bobbed her head against him, Booker struggled to keep his selfish urges in check. Carnal instinct begged him to thrust upwards and send himself plunging further into the sweet, cushioning confines of her mouth and throat, and it took all of his will to allow this to manifest in only small, helpful driving motions with his hips. 

The wet noises her mouth was making and the feel of her tongue gently sweeping across his glans sent a near-electric shock straight through to the top of his skull, body tingling in its wake. Through heavily-lidded eyes and around grit teeth he panted as he looked down at her, watching every movement of her head, every arch of her delicate eyebrows, counting every blossom of red lipstick she left as evidence of where she’d been.   
The dark crescents of Elizabeth’s eyelashes soon fluttered open, her gaze locking with his. Her face was no longer indifferent with her performance, but had reverted to one of concentrated devotion. _Devotion_ was certainly the word for it; they mutually worshipped one another, a law - a _religion_ \- unto themselves.   
The sheer sight of her pleasure-narrowed eyes– it was almost enough to make him come undone. 

“ _God_ – Let me– Let me out, ‘lizabeth…” Booker begged, his breaths leaving him in strained pants as his wrists loudly fought with the leather restraints, the metallic _chink_  of the buckles audible even over the sound of her muffled humming. He wanted her. God, he wanted her so bad, he was driven half-mad from not being able to touch her.   
Elizabeth drew back her head, lipstick smudged around the swell of her lips, her tongue sweeping away the strings of saliva that had remained trailing between her mouth and his tip. His pleading was met with a mocking smile as she feigned ignorance. If he wasn’t going to play along, she needn’t play fair. “Hmm? What was that?” she prompted, her tongue exploring the distended, snaking veins along his length. “Are you giving up, Mr DeWitt?” 

He knew there was no way out unless he finished the charade. By now his erection was so aggressive that it was practically pressed flat to his stomach. Booker’s arms battled the constraints once more, his muscles tensing just as his nostrils flared. “ _Miss_ , I’m begging you… I’ll give you what you want… just–!” His words died on his lips at the sight of Elizabeth straightening up to her full height, her high heels clacking as she rested her weight back on the balls of her feet. She moved with a kind of calculated coolness, but her face betrayed her urgency. She was flushed red, eyes flitting wistfully to the buckles of the armbands as she willed them to unlatch faster. “I _knew_ you’d come around to my way of thinking…” She said as she unbuckled the first restraint. Then, pace quickening as it tackled the other, she risked a glance at him, breath catching in her throat. “Are you– going to come nicely now?”  

The second band slackened, giving Booker all the opportunity he needed to slip his hand free. The guttural sound of approval that then left his throat tore right through Elizabeth, shifting her commanding expression to one of submission in milliseconds.   
“Who said anything about _nicely?_ ” He forewarned, rising from his seat. “– But don’t worry, Miss, I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you _exactly_ what you wanted,” He lunged at her before she had more of a chance to react. One hand took hold of her by the shoulder, the other grappled the natural handle her hip. His grip was as authoritative as it was passionate, forcing her to stumble backwards towards the bed while narrowly avoiding the tripod leg of the floor-lamp and the discarded trench coat.   
Elizabeth made to gasp out a response but a gurgle was all that escaped before his lips crashed down on hers, his tongue delving inside of her mouth and kneading her own. As he roughly set her down on the edge of the bed, his hands sought out the straps of her negligee, sliding them off of her arms entirely before she helped him wrestle the garment off of her. Pulling it over her head left her hair mussed, curls fanning out across the bed sheets. Caught under him like a pinned butterfly, Elizabeth’s chest heaved, her dusky pink nipples rigid and pointing heavenward. She hadn’t been wearing any underwear.  
Booker let out a low moan like a wounded animal, his mouth latching onto her right areola. In the meantime his hand slipped between her thighs to the throbbing source of heat at her core, spreading her folds and firmly tracing a finger down the column of her crotch, starting from the swollen bundle of nerves at its crest, down to the slick well of her entrance and back again. God, she was already so damp and ready for him.

Elizabeth’s back arched against the bed, gasping for air as she pulled at the cotton sheets beneath her. She managed to kick off her high heels, the shoes falling discarded to the floor with a loud clatter. With his lips enveloping the peak of her breast, she could feel his tongue lapping at the sensitive bud of her nipple, moving like a man possessed. Tipping her head back to moan, the crown of her head nestled the linen in frantic urgency. “Oh God– _Book_ –!” She began, but didn’t have a chance to finish. Booker plunged two fingers inside of her, meeting no resistance from the muscular walls of her confines as he began to move them with ease.   
“Aaah!  _B_ - _Booker_!” She whined out beneath him, always reminded whenever his hand worked within her of the sheer girth of his knuckles in relation to hers. They always seemed to build her up so much _faster_. 

His mouth broke away from her breast, pulling back as though withdrawing from a kiss, grunting as he speared her with his fingers again and again. “How’s that, Miss? Huh? That what you wanted?” He challenged between clenched teeth, each sentence punctuated by rugged gasps for air.  
Elizabeth arched further, rocking her hips in time with the movements of his hand. “N-No…!  _More_ –! I want more, Booker, please!” Twisting atop the sheets, she spread her legs as far as she could manage, looking up at him as if pleading for her life. He knew _exactly_ what she wanted. It was down to whether or not he’d give it to her without a fight. “Please! _G-Give it to me-!_ ” 

With that Booker let out a broken cry, wasting no time in sliding his fingers from her and taking a firm hold of his shaft, guiding it to her entrance as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He delayed only long enough to scoop her into his arms before he buried himself within her, a low moan working its way from his throat.   
 _This_ was the closest thing to heaven he’d see this side of the abyss. You could stick your city in the clouds, his ‘Eden’ came in the form of this apartment above the Seine with this dark-haired beauty sprawled out underneath him. He had no idea how they’d be judged for this when it came to it, but as far as he could tell the real sin would have been to deny the pure love he held for her.   

Thrusting into the hilt, feeling the pulsing walls of her womanhood form a tense seal around him, Booker moaned an expletive. His face, which had been drawn into an expression not dissimilar to the one he wore in the heat of battle, relaxed into one of ecstatic relief.   
She was making incoherent noises of pleasure underneath him, writhing, her hands connecting with the wall of his olive-skinned back. Booker didn’t bother building up from a steady pace, instead he pulled back and rammed into Elizabeth hard enough to make the headboard rattle.   
“Ye-es!” She cried out with a jerk of her head, the sound loud enough to permeate the walls. The twinge of concern that Booker might normally have felt at the thought of the neighbour’s overhearing their lovemaking was buried beneath his pent-up lust. This was _their_ home. Right now, as far as he was concerned, they could scream the damned walls down. 

“ _That’s_ my girl…” He soothed in a gravelly voice, his mouth tipping into a smirk as he hitched her legs up. His blood roared in his ears, heart pounding wildly, as he rolled his hips into her again and again.   
Their bodies moved in tandem, locked together like two sections of a puzzle, Elizabeth’s hands carving surface-deep tracks across his shoulder blades. They seemed to be in a race with the beating of the wind against the window pane, the bed knocking against the panelled walls in time with the banging of the shutters.  
Elizabeth’s screams soon became that of a vixen in heat, tangled and beyond the realms of her control, just as Booker was grunting loudly with every thrust. He wanted to hold off for as long as he could but he was steadily reaching the point of no return. Her name had begun to fall from his lips like a holy mantra repeated over and over, his head bowed against hers, the tips of their noses a mere inch apart. 

“Elizabeth… ahh,  _Liz_! – _God_ , I– I love you s-so _fucking_ much–” His breath hitched, movements becoming erratic, the crow’s feet at his eyes intensifying with his impending climax. Booker needn’t warn her, she could read it in his face, her nails digging into his back as her hips thrusted up to meet his. She moaned words of reciprocated love, her own body locking up with pleasure as she begged for him to finish within her. At this point however, he had little choice in the matter. With one last drive into her, Booker came apart at the seams, spilling his seed into the depths of her core.   
Immediately, Elizabeth’s thighs clamped at his waist, holding him in place, the muscles in her legs spasming against his side. His arms managed to support him for a few seconds more before he inevitably collapsed down on top of her, conscious not to rest his full body weight on her daintier form. 

The two panted as though they had run a marathon, sharing the same small pocket of air. Elizabeth sobbed as if in grief when he slipped from her, bemoaning their severed connection, but Booker daren’t otherwise move until he’d recovered. He felt her fingers splayed in his hair, the gently scratching movements of her fingertips soothing him. Her caresses in the glowing aftermath of sex had become a kind of reward system; he knew from the rain of kisses on his cheek and the way her fingers re-combed his parting that it’d been good for her.   
Booker sighed contentedly, nuzzling her temple. He had long stopped feeling the shameful unrest and guilt their post-coitus moments had once instilled in him. Elizabeth had _long_ -since chased away any of those doubts. After all, how could something so perfect as what they had be so wrong?   
Pressing a kiss to her waiting lips, he tested his limbs to see if he was ready to move. Body responding, he steadily began to clamber off of her, seeking out his side of the bed. As he retreated, Elizabeth reached for the switch of the floor-lamp, leaving the amber glow spilling from the dressing table as the one remaining source of light. Settling down under the covers, Booker scratched the back of his head absently, his free hand holding out the sheets on Elizabeth’s side as if preparing to tuck her in.

“So,” She grinned as she shimmied down beneath the linen, satisfaction practically beaming from her skin. “How was _that_ for an interrogation?”   
“… Brutal,” Booker teased as soon as he’d rolled to face her, smiling lopsidedly. Reaching across the expanse of the bed, his fingertips brushed at some hairs that had gotten stuck to her forehead with perspiration, handling her as gently as he would an eggshell. “Though I think I came out on top,”  
“You sure did,” She hummed approvingly.   
They stared at each other for a moment in wordless admiration, Elizabeth’s pupils darting as her gaze drifted from his mussed chestnut hair to the tired, heavily-lidded eyes that followed her just as keenly. Pulling the covers up to her collar bone, she scooted closer to him in the bed, her hand seeking his. He complied, meeting her halfway, lacing his fingers with hers. Her eyes were heavy too, and no wonder, considering the late hour. Both of them were too exhausted to even think about the usual winding down activities; Elizabeth’s pillow would have to suffice in wiping away her make-up tonight.

Hands entwined together, Booker watched as she began to drift off beside him, her face smoothing out, becoming saintly and vulnerable with sleep.   
His smile might have faded from his lips, but it was alive in the way he stared at her. He needed nothing else besides Elizabeth. She’d be the death of him, he was sure of it, but he’d made peace with that. He’d die a thousand times over for her anyway.


End file.
